


what happened at seward street station

by localgaysian (leslytherinphoenix)



Category: Ghostbusters (2016), Ghostbusters - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-14 12:35:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8014246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leslytherinphoenix/pseuds/localgaysian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The blonde woman turns around, hands in her pockets, and sends her a wink that Patty thinks should be illegal. There's a swooping feeling in the pit of her stomach, and then the woman turns back around and slinks away, just like the swooping feeling, just like a cat.  </p><p>And, like a cat, she comes back, except not with a dead mouse or two in tow." </p><p>Patty develops a crush on the woman who walks by her booth every day. It changes a few things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Patty knows it's gonna be a bad day when the only upside she can think of is that it's not raining. It's 8 A.M. and she's already lost her favorite pair of earrings in her bag, spilled coffee all over her vest, realized that she didn't have time to go home and get another, dashed to Walgreens to get a stain remover, and slid into her booth at the MTA exactly one minute before her shift started and exactly two before her boss came by with a lipsticky smile to tell her she's “glad to see her at work on time.” Patty grit her teeth at that. She is a lot of things, but she is never, ever late.

 

But at least it's not raining.

 

She gets through her book about the history of New York's sewer system, which was more interesting than she thought it would be, and starts on a book about the Salem witch trials, creatively entitled _Salem,_ that she wants to get through before her former classmate Kayla decides she wants it back. She finishes a chapter, then sets the book aside and watches the people walk by for a little bit.

 

It's a little quieter today than usual, but there are still people milling about. Suddenly desperate for human contact, she presses the “speak” button on her desk and leans towards the microphone. “Hey, I like that scarf,” she tells a frazzled-looking twenty-something year old student with an afro and a bright red scarf. The kid, rushing to catch a train, gives her a shaky smile and dashes off. Poor thing, Patty thinks sympathetically. She looks around the hall. There's a dashing looking man with a cap, holding a bag of rice by the turnstile. A blonde woman in a long coat and what looks like goggles on the top of her head leaning against the booth, just little too casually. Patty glances at her dubiously, then back at the security cameras. She shrugs. As long as she doesn't start rolling around on the ground and screaming about the apocalypse she can stand and lean against the wall a little too casually as long as she wants.

 

Twenty minutes later, it's getting a little weird. Patty glances up to check the time and she's still there, still in the exact same spot, tip of the nose red (probably from the cold). It really doesn't seem like she's waiting for someone – no phone checking, no hurried glancing around. She doesn't seem high – though Patty's seen a lot and wouldn't be surprised if she _were_ high, it seems unlikely. Patty keeps reading, but the blonde woman is just barely visible in the corner of her eye and she doesn't seem to be leaving anytime soon.

 

After another few minutes, Patty puts the book down and knocks on the plastic close to where the woman is standing. “Can I help you, ma'am?” she asks. The woman starts and turns around, shoving her glasses/goggles down over her eyes.

 

“I'm good,” she says. “Subway.” Patty cocks her head and looks at her dubiously. “Going to go on that now,” the woman says, cheeks turning red to match the tip of her nose. She points towards the subway platform and saunters off.

 

Patty watches her go, head still tilted and slightly confused. She feels sort of bad. She should say something. Slightly annoyed with herself, she leans forward into the microphone and presses the “speak” button. “I like your coat,” she calls.

 

The blonde woman turns around, hands in her pockets, and sends her a wink that Patty thinks should be illegal. There's a swooping feeling in the pit of her stomach, and then the woman turns back around and slinks away, just like the swooping feeling, just like a cat.

 

And, like a cat, she comes back, except not with a dead mouse or two in tow.

 

Patty isn't really keeping track, but she thinks it's about the same time as the day before when the woman – Goggles, Patty starts calling her in her head, because she's wearing them again today, pushed up and perched in her mop of blonde hair – pushes through the turnstile. Almost immediately, Patty's stomach starts acting up, sort of like she ate too much ice cream but not really. Patty smiles and waves a little when Goggles walks by her booth, whistling merrily. She doesn't smile back. Patty falters a little and lowers her hand. Maybe Goggles just wasn't looking in her direction today. It happens. Some days people are a little bit more obsessed with themselves than other days.

 

She tries not to feel disappointed. Still, the MTA is a lonely job, good for people who like books, but lonely. Her gaze inadvertently flicks back towards Goggles. Her gait is confident, wide. Her coat brushes back and forth against the back of her calf. And just before she gets lost in the throng of people coming off the last train, she turns around and gives Patty a two-fingered salute, grinning wildly.

 

It takes a little longer than the day before for Patty to get her heart to start beating normally again. She tries to bite back and grin but fails, then gives up.

 

–

 

Patty looks at her watch the next time she sees Goggles, and yep, it's the same time as the day before. Today she's wearing her coat over a pair overalls over a crop top, and she uses her hip to push through the turnstile in a move that looks incredibly dorky yet somehow well-executed.

 

“Top of the mornin' to ya,” she calls to Patty in a surprisingly good imitation of an Irish accent.

 

“How you doin' today?” Patty asks, leaning on the 'speak' button.

 

Goggles gives her two thumbs-up.

 

 _Dear God_ , Patty thinks. _Is she wearing fingerless gloves?_

 

She is.

 

–

 

Three days in a row at the exact same time seems like quite the coincidence, or _maybe,_ Patty tries to convince herself, a new job in a new part of town that has very regular working hours.

 

It doesn't make her smile less when Goggles walks into the station and points at her vest, which is nearly identical to the one that Patty is wearing. “Twins,” she mouths. Patty snorts.

 

–

 

“You need to go on a date,” Kayla says when Patty stops by her apartment that afternoon to return _Salem._ “Seriously, Patty. This book is seven hundred pages long and you finished it in three days. With a full-time job. That's not natural.”

 

“It was four days,” Patty says in defense. “Besides, I read fast. You know that.”

 

Kayla shakes her head. “When is the last time you went out? Like, out-out?”  
  
  
  
“Out-out?” Patty snorts. “What are we, eighteen year old white girls?”

 

Rolling her eyes, Kayla sets the book on her coffee table with a thump. “That's not an answer.”

 

“I have a regular arrangement with a woman who walks by my booth every morning, thank you very much,” Patty says.

 

“Have you even talked to her at all?” Kayla raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “No lies, Patricia.”

 

Patty crosses her arms. “I asked her if I could help her and she said “I'm good. Subway.””

 

Kayla coughs to hide a chuckle. “Subway?”

 

“We smile at each other every day,” Patty says. “It's real cute. Like rom-com cute.”

 

Kayla nods dubiously.

 

–

 

A week goes by, then two, then three. Even though Patty may have been a little optimistic when she called it a regular arrangement after four days, it's definitely a regular arrangement after twenty-one. Every day, Goggles makes eye contact, winks, salutes, points finger guns – every day, it takes a little longer for Patty to stop smiling and to get back to her books.

 

She has her regulars. She has her people that she recognizes – Mrs. Green from her building, some kids going to school with their heavy backpacks. But Goggles always seems awake and cheerful, and she's always, _always_ on time. Punctuality. Patty admires that in a woman. Goggles is punctual and smiling on the weekends, through normal break times, even on that one day when it's hailing and everyone else Patty sees is grimacing and unfriendly.

 

Patty makes sure she stays on the early shift. She goes on bad Tinder dates and laughs with Kayla about them afterwards. She ignores her framed Master's and Bachelor's degrees collecting dust in her closet. She reads all of _Journey to the West_ and starts on _American History: The Secrets of New York,_ even though she's already read _American Secrets: The History of New York_ and basically every other book with a similar title. She always reads with a red pen in her hand, marking inconsistencies – 1860 instead of 1862, a name with an extra “e.” Subjective language, the like. Someday, she's going to compile her own book and fix all the crap she's noticed in the other ones. Maybe when she takes a much-deserved vacation. Maybe when the robots inevitably take over and destroy the subway system and she has more time on her hands.

 

In short, life goes on.

 

–

 

Patty's napping when her phone buzzes on the nightstand. Groaning, she turns it on. She sighs. It's her dumb coworker, Kyle.

 

Kyle: can we trade shifts 2moro? its not important but theres an audition

 

Patty sighs again. Kyle has the late shift. If she takes over the late shift, she'll miss dinner with her friends, the first time they've all managed to get together in a year. Well, she won't miss it. But she'll be late. Late enough to miss the people who go home early, the people who have flights to catch and meetings in the morning and little siblings or children at home. She's about to text back “Ok Kyle, but you owe me one” before she realizes that she'll also miss Goggles. It would be the first break in their “regular arrangement.”

 

She remembers Kayla telling her forcefully that she needs to get out more, go on more dates – real dates, Kayla always emphasizes – and figures that starting with her friends is good enough. Patty nods. She deserves this and has for a while. “Sorry Kyle,” she texts back. “No can do.”

 

“ughh,” comes the reply, almost immediately. “it's okay ill just get someone else to do it.”

 

Patty flops back onto her pillow. A moment later, her phone pings. “What now,” Patty grumbles and unlocks it. A new message from Kyle: “ok audition got canceled anyway.” Great. Now she doesn't even have to feel bad.

 

That is, until the next night, when she's laughing and tipsy with Kayla and Taylor and her other old friends and ignoring the frantic buzzing of her phone in her pocket.

 

“Girl, check your phone,” Kayla says, nudging her in the shoulder. Reluctantly, Patty pulls it out, ready to make fun of whatever desperate creature is blowing up her phone.

 

She unlocks it and reads nine unread messages from Kyle, with dramatically increasing urgency:

 

“Patty”

“Patricia”

“i cant tell if im hallucinating”

“this cant be real”

“im outside the station u need to come look at this”

“PATTY”

“ok thats it”

“idc if im going crazy thats it”

“I'm quitting”

 

“What happened?” Patty replies.

 

“there was this freaky ass dude,” Kyle types back almost immediately.

 

“So?” Patty doesn't want to seem callous, but that can't be the first time Kyle encountered a high, drunk, or just flat-out crazy person.

 

“not just that,” Kyle says. Patty sighs. He seems to really be enjoying this dramatic retelling of whatever happened. “saw a ghost.”

 

Patty rolls her eyes. “Are you high?”

 

“i swear no.” Kyle's typing. Then he stops. Then he starts up again. “a real ghost.”

 

Patty shakes her head and puts her phone back in her bag.

 

“Who was that?” Taylor asks. Patty knows that look – Taylor has it on her face every time someone says something quietly, or something that leaves anything up to the imagination.

 

“Overdramatic theatre kid.” Patty snorts. “Y'all want another drink?”

 

–

 

She's a little more on edge than usual the next day, not because she believes in ghosts but more because she thinks there might be some weird nerve gas or fungus type thing in the subway tunnel. She's not in the mood for hallucinations or screaming or even a very high dude in the tunnel. She's really not.

 

It's a weird day from the moment she gets up. Her coffee is just a little metallic-tasting; every part of her body is on edge. The sky is overcast but it doesn't smell like rain. She settles into her booth and cracks a book open, like normal, but she's fidgety.

 

And, for the first time ever, Goggles is late. Not by much, but by enough that Patty's put her book down and is impatiently staring at the turnstile by the time she pushes through. Dressed normally. Hair normal. That's where the routine stops: she's also pushing a cart with a bunch of stuff haphazardly balanced on it, and she has two women in tow, one with glasses and , the other sort of – make that extremely – nerdy looking, in a jacket that looks like tweed and her bangs neatly straightened. Actually, they're all sort of nerdy looking. Just a nerdy little trio. 

 

The two women who came in with Goggles peel off and start speedwalking towards the platform. Goggles makes a beeline towards the booth, still with the cart; Patty think her heart might stop.

 

“Good mornin', ma'am, how can I help you?” Patty asks, trying not to sound too excited.

 

“When's the next train from this track?” Goggles asks, tilting her head. Her hands drum the top of the cart.

 

Patty checks the clock. “Not for another twenty minutes. Where are you trying to go, though? You could probably get there faster if you go to another platform and transfer.”

 

Goggles waves her hand. “It's cool. I'm patient.” She winks and starts walking away.

 

Patty's heart starts speeding up like crazy, and she recovers just in time to shout “you have a nice day!”

 

She looks away from her, towards the wall, trying not to seem awkward or particularly flustered. She tries not to glance at the platform to catch a glimpse. She's not a seventh grader with a crush and this is ridiculous. So instead, he stares at the security camera footage, because that's not less creepy. Goggles and her two friends mill around the platform for a bit, trying to look casual. Patty furrows her brow. Then they dash off onto the tracks, Goggles pulling the cart behind her.

 

“What the hell?” Patty mutters, then grabs her flashlight. She shakes her head. “White people.”

 

Her watch says that the next train is coming in 17 minutes. She speedwalks towards the platform and hops down, casting a suspicious glance at the third rail like it's going to come alive and electrocute her.

 

“Look,” she says, shining the flashlight around the tunnel, “I don't know what y'all are up to, but whatever it is, can you not do it in my tunnel?”

 

“I think she found us,” someone says, and Patty shines her flashlight in the direction of the voice. There's the cart, balancing precariously against the concrete wall. And sure enough, there's Goggles, wearing her jacket like always, her hands in her pocket, like always, squinting at Patty in a way that makes her face scrunch up. It's kinda cute. “She found us, Abby,” she says. She nudges one of the woman who came in with her, who is hitting a device that looks like one of those head massage thingies at Forever 21. Patty squints. The other one is nowhere in sight.

 

“Thanks, Holtzmann. I hadn't noticed,” the other woman – Abby? – says. She looks up at Patty. “Sorry, this is really important.”

 

Patty raises an eyebrow. “Important enough that you have to crawl through a subway tunnel to fix it? Do you know how many volt that thing has?” She points at the third rail with the flashlight.

 

“Four?” asks Goggles – no, Holtzmann, Patty corrects herself. In spite of everything, she's grateful she has a name for the face. Even if it is a last name. Or just a very weird first name. “Maybe five?”

 

“Enough to fry your cute little face, that's for sure.” Patty points her flashlight back at them.

 

“So five,” Holtzmann says. Abby whacks her on the arm with the head massage thing, then whoops in joy when it starts spinning around and lighting up.

 

“Erin!” Abby yells, and the third woman emerges out of the maintenance tunnel. “Look at this!”

  
  
“Oh, great,” the woman – Erin – says. Patty is pleased to confirm that she is wearing tweed, actual tweed, and waves the head-massager-thingie above her head. “This is such a clear reading!”

 

“Okay, what the hell is going on?” Patty asks.

 

Erin jumps and looks at her. “Oh my god,” she shrieks, then calms down when she gets a good look at Patty's face. She's recovered remarkably quickly and strides over to Patty, one hand outstretched, one hand still holding the whirring device.“Erin Gilbert, Ph.D,” she says.“Former professor at Columbia University.”

 

“Patty Tolan, current MTA worker,” Patty says, looking around at the three of them in confusion.

 

“We're conducting an examination,” Erin explains, pulling at her tweed jacket, “of the metaphysical realm.”

 

“Ghosts,” Abby cuts in, taking the whisk/head massager-thing from Erin and waving it around. “Holtzmann here saw one on the tracks the other day.”

 

“Floatin' around,” Holtzmann mutters, frantically typing on something on the cart. “Just... chilling.”

 

Patty fumbles with the words, but doesn't quite manage. “My coworker saw a ghost,” she finally says. “About a week ago, maybe.”

 

“Probably the same one,” Holtzmann says. She taps something with enthusiasm and something starts beeping.

 

“Uh, is that supposed to happen?” Patty asks, pointing at the thing.

 

“Holtzmann,” Abby says warningly. The beeping increases in frequency and volume. She looks at Patty. “You might want to step back.”

 

“Oh, I'm stepping back,” Patty says, casting a suspicious glance towards the device. Holtzmann is still typing furiously. “This is not normal,” Patty mutters under her breath, looking around at the three of them and trying to decide if they actually think they're hunting ghosts or if they're a bunch of wackos trying to blow something up. She doesn't like stereotyping, but she figured that, since none of them were white men, they weren't serial killers. There's a first time for everything, though.

 

Suddenly, Holtzmann points towards the end of the tunnel. “Do you see that?” she asks. “The eyes!”

 

Erin sighs. “Not now, Holtzmann –”

 

“Uh, there's something there,” Patty says quickly. Two orbs hang suspended in the air. “I mean, it could just be some lights –”

 

Her ears pop.

 

“Did anyone else feel that?” Patty asks, rubbing her ears. The other three nod, barely containing their excitement.

 

“We need some light,” Abby says. “Holtzy? Flashlight?”

 

“I got you,” Patty says and turns her flashlight on the eyes.

 

“That's...bizarre,” Erin says softly. Patty yelps and thinks _that's the understatement of the century._

 

A figure floats towards them, bathed in blue light. A man and not-quite a man, electricity crackling around his head– it's cool, sort of, but it's also really, really disturbing. She can definitely understand why Kyle chose to run, quit, and never come back.

 

“Look at that,” Abby says in amazement.

 

“Oh, that makes sense,” Patty says, momentarily recovering from the shock of having _a floating blue dead man in her subway tunnel._ And from the shock of realizing that Kyle isn't just an overdramatic theatre kid. “They used to electrocute people in here.”

 

The other three turn to her. “What?” Abby asks.

 

“Executions,” Patty says, “up there.” She motions towards the ceiling. “It used to take so long that they'd just be like 'shoot em! We're using too much electricity!'”

 

“That does make sense,” Holtzmann says, stepping out from behind her cart and handing a gun-type-thing to Erin. “Okay, so you know how we practiced this?”

 

“I'm having a hard time remembering,” Erin admits, hands shaking a little as she takes the device. “What did you –”

 

“Just point and shoot.” Holtzmann mimes the action. “Oh, I almost forgot the grounding.” She fumbles around the cart again. “Patty, you might want to turn away,” she calls. “Don't want you to be scarred for life.”

 

“ _What?”_ Erin hisses. Holtzmann fastens something that looks like a dog collar onto her neck.

 

Patty swallows. “I think it's a little late for that,” she replies, looking at the figure that seems to be floating nearer.

 

“Okay, Erin,” Holtzmann says, taking about three steps back, “now!”

 


	2. Chapter 2

“What the _hell_ was that?” She's holding a cup of black coffee on a damp park bench.

 

Holtzmann leans on the armrest, laughing so hard she nearly spills her hot chocolate all over her lap.“It was a ghost,” she says matter-of-factly.

 

Patty thinks this entire day was probably just a fever dream, from the ghost to the conversation to the fact that the woman who's been walking by her MTA booth every day just bought her coffee and re-introduced herself as “Dr. Jillian Holtzmann, but you can call me anything you like.”

 

She shakes her head. “And this is real? Like, for real for real?”

 

“As real as my boobs,” Holtzmann says, and Patty almost spits out her coffee in laughter/indignation. “No, really. That happened.”

 

“Man.” Patty looks off into the distance, at a New York that seems both the same and simultaneously not the same. “And y'all do this a lot?”

 

“This may have been the first time,” Holtzmann mumbles into the cup. “Anyway, it's a... research project of sorts. Erin calls us the Conductors of the Metaphysical Examination.” She says it with a British accent, which doesn't make sense because neither Erin nor either of them are British but it still makes Patty laugh. “I think we should go for something more snappy, but hey. You know academia.”

 

Patty grimaces. “I do. Got a Master's degree in American History. Never expected to actually see a ghost, though. That was completely new.”

 

Holtzmann laughs, dryly, but it's a pretty laugh, a human one. “I just thought we should check it out. You know, that guy totally scared the crap out of me on the subway. He might've been able to do some actual damage.”

 

“Thank you, I think,” Patty says, taking another sip of coffee.

 

Holtzmann bows her head. “Much obliged.”

 

They lapse into a comfortable silence.

 

“That equipment is really unstable, by the way,” Holtzmann blurts out. “I really hope it doesn't cause cancer 'cause that would be really rough.”

 

Patty looks at her, raising an eyebrow. “That sounds like something you should maybe work on.”

 

“Yeah.” Holtzmann snorts. “Maybe.”

 

–

 

Holtzmann doesn't come back the day after that, or the day after that. Patty is wondering if that's it; they'll never see each other again; the coffee on a park bench and friendly elbow nudge Holtzmann gave her in parting when she dropped Patty back off at her apartment was it, forever, and she missed her chance – if that even was a chance – and a chance to do _what,_ exactly? Patty feels 16 just thinking about it.

 

But on the third day post-ghost, Holtzmann slinks back up to Patty's booth and leans over the counter, chewing gum and grinning. “Heya, Patty,” she says.

 

“Holtzmann.” Patty bites back the smile that was threatening to spread across her face. “Haven't seen you in a little bit.”

 

“Been a long two days,” Holtzmann says. “Anyway – I talked it over with the others –” she pauses.

 

“Everything okay?” Patty swallows.

 

Holtzmann nods as if to reassure her. “Oh, yeah. Anyway, you know how you have this job?”

 

“Well, yeah.” Patty chuckles. “Kind of puts food on my table.”

 

“How about a new job?” Holtzmann asks. She sways back and forth a little, and, with a start, Patty realizse she's actually nervous. “With us?”

 

Patty wrinkles her forehead. “You mean as, like, a secretary or something? No offense, baby, but I think the MTA has a more dependable source of income –”

 

“As a historian,” Holtzmann interrupts her. “We got all the science stuff, but we get so caught up in it sometimes –” her voice falters.

 

“Nah, I got you,” Patty says. Her head is reeling. Part of her thinks she only wants to do this because she gets kind of caught up in Holtzmann's dimples, the swirl of her hair; another part of her thinks that she might be able to dust off those degrees in her closet and feel the history again, like she does when she's reading except all the time, centuries of pain and loss and love teeming beneath her feet and at her fingertips. Crap. She really wants to do it. “I want to do it,” she says out loud, and Holtzmann fist pumps and hollers. “Okay, but be straight with me.”

 

“Not one of my strengths,” Holtzmann says, almost automatically, then smirks to herself.

 

Patty snorts. “Y'all have benefits? Health insurance?”

 

“Our office is above a Chinese takeout place and we have a receptionist who may be a golden retriever in disguise,” Holtzmann says flatly.

 

Patty nods slowly. She can't believe she actually wants to do this. But something about that ghost – something about that team – something about the idea of being to see history come alive, or undead in front of her –

 

“I'll do it,” Patty says, “just let me tell my boss. And make sure the others are okay with it, too, okay? I don't wanna mess with your clique.”

 

–

 

The clique is thrilled to have Patty on the team. Abby gives her half of her soup because Patty didn't eat lunch– which is a big deal, judging by Holtzmann's expression and elaborate gestures – and Erin excitedly starts babbling about the next book she wants to write, which will cover the “implications of paranormal theory to not only Physics and Biology, but also the Humanities.” Erin's already got Patty promising to write a chapter by the time she finishes her soup.

 

Even Kevin, the dim receptionist, stops by and tells her that her ties are “fly.” A warm, glowy feeling settles in the middle of Patty's chest, especially when she doesn't have to snap her book closed every time someone walks by out of fear it might be her boss.

 

She doesn't have health insurance, or good, working WiFi, or a job that she can tell her parents about, but something about this is right in the way that only her gut knows and doesn't care to explain.

 

–

 

“You know, I still haven't been able to figure out where you were going all the time.” Patty's sitting at the table, surrounded by maps and books and pamphlets. Holtzmann is lying on the couch, feet propped up onto the armrest. Erin and Abby have busied themselves with poring over some equations in a booth. Kevin is hiding, or maybe seeking.

 

“What?” Holtzmann asks, turning to look at her.

 

Patty raises an eyebrow. “I saw you every day for, like, three months,” she says. “Even on the weekends.”

 

“Oh.” Holtzmann nods. “Yeah, I was just –” she stops.

 

“Just...?”

 

“I was trying to figure out if you were a ghost,” Holtzmann says. “No living person working for the MTA smiles that much.” For a second Patty stares at her dubiously, not sure if she should be offended or launch herself across the table and shout “BOO!” Then a grin breaks across Holtzmann's face.

 

“Man, I thought you were serious.” Patty shakes her head.

 

Holtzmann shakes her head. “I just thought you would appreciate my smiling face every morning,” she admits.

 

“So you weren't really going anywhere?” Patty asks, just to make sure.

 

“Life is a journey, Patricia,” Holtzmann says, motioning like an Italian grandmother. “We are always moving, always –”

 

“You weren't going anywhere,” Patty says flatly. “You just came by every day.”

 

Holtzmann's hands drop down to her side. “All the better to see you, my dear,” she says teasingly, but she's serious.

 

–

 

And then they save New York.

 

–

 

“Hey, Patty,” Holtzmann says, leaning in the doorway. They're cleaning their old office out. Erin and Abby are at the firehouse already, arguing with Kevin over which color to paint the walls.

 

Patty sets a box down and wipes the sweat on her palms on her jeans. “Hey, Holtzy.”

 

“You know what I think about sometimes?” She pushes her goggles up. “I think that it would've been really easy for us not to meet. And that's –” she stiffens. “Anyway.”

 

“Aw,” Patty says, crossing over to her and hugging her tightly, picking her up and swinging her around a little. “It's okay, Holtzy, I would've been there.” She puts her back down. “You didn't summon the ghost, did you?”

 

Holtzmann opens her mouth. “That's a pretty big assumption, but –”

 

“Holtzy.” Patty crosses her arms.

 

“You're right,” Holtzmann says. She sends Patty a shy smile and disappears down the stairs.

 

–

 

They dance around each other, a tightly choreographed routine that leaves Patty sort of annoyed, definitely confused, and almost googling “does she like me back quiz” before regaining her composure. Holtzmann needles her; she flirts with her, Erin, and every other woman they come across (except Abby. Abby has eyes for soup and soup only). She hovers by Patty's desk when she's stuck on a project or unable to concentrate. Or she brings small devices and plants herself on the ground by Patty's feet, screwing and tinkering until there's the faint scent of metal and oil wafting around Patty's desk. Patty doesn't mind.

 

A few days go by; the group settles into the firehouse. Erin and Patty start collaborating on the book. Abby joins Holtzmann on the floor next to Patty's desk for a few hours. They discuss their inventions in low voices, the best ways to make this or that.

 

Every so often, Holtzmann looks up at Patty and winks, and the same feeling she got three months ago when she thought of Holtz as “Goggles” and never thought she'd know her name appears again.

 

At least it doesn't seem to be escalating. Patty thinks she will just shove her feelings down where she'll never ever actually have the temptation to act on them, which seems to be the best case scenario for this kind of thing.

 

Kayla raises her eyebrows when Patty tells her this over drinks, but Kayla's always been a little naive and a little susceptible to believing in the power of love and crap.

 

–

 

And then her feelings decide to do a thing where they come up and take over her brain and make it really, really tempting to act on them.

 

Patty spends a week biting back variations of “where are we going with this?” and hopes it will never, ever come to it. She has the urge to tell Holtzmann everything, to blurt out “I've liked you since the day you showed up in my subway station” and then run away as fast as possible.

 

The scary thing is that she doesn't even think it would ruin anything. Erin and Abby like her, she's actually _friends_ with them now, and the Ghostbusters need their resident historian. So ejection from the social group and loss of job is out. And Holtzmann will brush it off like she does miniature explosions. That's all this'll be. A miniature explosion.

 

Patty almost plucks up the courage to do it when she thinks of it like that. Then she thinks that it's better to avoid explosions all together. You never know what might cause a chain reaction.

 

–

 

“Holtzmann, where are we going with this?”

 

So much for chain reactions. More like “the only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.” _Damn you, Oscar Wilde,_ Patty thinks.

 

Holtzmann blinks and looks up. “This? I call this the Squisher. It's –”

 

“Not that weird looking thing.” Patty gets off her chair and sits down next to Holtzmann on the floor. Erin and Abby are on a bust – unconsciously, or maybe on purpose, she's waited for them to get out of the firehouse. “I mean the fact that you said yesterday, multiple times to make sure I heard you, that you were going to “date me until I die” and I'm not sure if you're joking anymore.”

 

Holtzmann laughs nervously. “I mean, do you want me to be?”

 

Not what Patty was expecting. She almost yells “NO!” but restrains herself.

 

“I'm sorry, Patty. I can stop –”

 

“I don't want that,” Patty says quickly, “I want –”

 

Holtzmann leans in and stops just as their noses brush together. “This?”

 

“Yeah,” Patty says, nearly breathless, “something like that.”

 

–

 

“Dr. Gorin,” Holtzmann says, putting her hand on Patty's back and shoving her slightly forward, “this is my girlfriend, Patty Tolan.”

 

Patty can't decide what Dr. Gorin's expression means. Her eyes slide from Holtzmann to Patty, then back again. Finally, her mouth opens, but nothing seems to be coming out any time soon.

 

“It's an honor to meet you,” Patty blurts out. “Holtzy's told me –”

 

Dr. Gorin clears her throat.

 

Patty swallows the rest of her sentence.

 

“You're gay?” Dr. Gorin asks, staring at Holtzmann with a look that can only be described as utter betrayal. Holtzmann meets her gaze, unblinking, unyielding. They hold for ten seconds, twenty –

 

They burst into laughter, the genuine kind, not the awkward tittering Patty usually gets from straight people.

 

“Ha, good one,” Holtzmann says, clapping Dr. Gorin on the back. Dr. Gorin wipes tears, actual tears, from her eyes and pulled off her gloves to shake Patty's hand.

 

“My pleasure,” Dr. Gorin says.

 

Shaking her head, Patty laughs with them, with Holtzmann's hand still on her back.

 

–

 

Holtzmann is warm and she smells like oil and baby shampoo. Holtzmann is warm and she clings to Patty sometimes like it's the end of the world, or like she is a koala and Patty is a eucalyptus tree. Holtzmann gets along with Kayla and comes along to reunion dinners and freaks her uncle out when she talks about the stuff she's done with – to – corpses. Erin and Abby squeal when they tell them and they, separately, give them “never, ever, hurt her” talks and Patty knows she's safe with them, that regardless of what happens this family is a family and she will be loved.

 

Holtzmann is warm and buries her face in Patty's neck and Patty never wants her to go.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for this fic, folks. If you want, check out my multichap, which will be eventual Toltzmann, called "almost there." Other than that, find me on tumblr (localgaysian) and yell at me about these goobers.


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